Cyanide
by ChaoticDiamond
Summary: Post Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Yvonne (OC) and Bucky, two troubled adults full of secrets and dark pasts. They seek comfort in one another, but are still wary to let someone see them for who they really are. Afraid to expose themselves, they choose to lie to one another. Is it possible for them to find the comfort they both crave, or are they only harming each other?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I do not own any characters in this story, aside from the characters that I created. Bucky Barnes and others belong to Marvel.

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**Chapter 1**

She had been watching him for awhile. Examining the mysterious man in the baseball cap. His hair was fairly long, and a bit shaggy. He wore a large jacket, which she found unusual for the beautiful, spring weather.

She noticed that the man was focused on his cup of coffee, and only his cup of coffee. Nothing, or nobody, could divert the man's gaze away from the steaming drink in front of him. He had not yet touched his cup of coffee; he only stared.

The woman is hesitant as she approaches the man. "Excuse me," she says.

The man's head tilts in her direction, but only slightly. He says nothing to her.

"I'm sorry," the woman continues. "I just," she stops speaking, and takes a moment to recollect her thoughts. "I was wondering if I could join you."

The man turns his head back to his cup of coffee, before finally taking a sip.

Tightening her grip on her latte, the woman pulls out the chair opposite from the man and sits down.

He does nothing to stop her.

"My name is Yvonne," she raises her right hand towards him, which the man ignores. "Look, I know it's none of my business," Yvonne lowers her arm, "but are you okay?"

The man continues to remain silent.

"You just, you look so alone," she sighs. "I know what it feels like to be alone. To feel helpless and abandoned. I understand how it feels when the world is against you, crushing you, confining you." She lowers her gaze to her fiddling hands. "I don't want anyone else to feel that way. So, are you okay?"

Finally, the man raises his gaze to look at the woman sitting across from him. The expression on his face is stoic, but she can notice the coldness, and the confusion, that illuminates his eyes. Again, he says nothing.

And silence begins to envelope them; neither party eager to break the silence. They do not notice the uncomfortable glances from other customers in the small coffee shop, nor do they notice how much time is passing them by. They continue to examine each other; their eyes are curious and their minds are calculating of the situation.

He notices that her short, brown hair is a mess. That her eyes are bloodshot, and the dark bags underneath them are quite prominent. The girl is quite petite, almost frail looking. Aside from the splash of freckles adorning her face, her skin appeared to have never seen any light from the sun shining outside. She was dressed in a simple, light blue dress and a thin, gold band decorated the dainty index finger of her right hand.

He wonders about what could have happened to her. Ponders about the events in her life that brought about such dark shadows.

For a moment, he wants to fix her. To take away the pain that is plaguing Yvonne's mind. He wants to destroy the thoughts that are haunting her, and tell her that everything will be okay. That she is too innocent to be so lonely, so sad. He doesn't want her to give up on her life.

Because if she gives up, what hope does he have of fixing his?

And for an instant, he wants to tell her all his secrets. He wants to tell her about how conflicted he feels, and about the guilt, and the confusion, that he is constantly sifting through in his mind.

But he knows that those words will scare her. That his story will chase her away. He knows that this woman can never mean anything for him, that being a part of his life will get her hurt in the end.

Yet, he makes no attempt to stop his words. "I'm James," he says.

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**Published: Saturday, 12 April 2014**

**Word Count: 633**

**A/N:** I know, I've been gone for awhile, and my Loki/OC story is nowhere near finished. I really have no excuse to be writing a new story. However, I plan for this story to be quite short, maybe ten chapters at most. I will go back to my other story at some point, I promise. I've got everything planned out, but I haven't had time to write it down.

Anyways, please leave some feedback because I would love to hear your thoughts. And you can follow me on Tumblr, or Twitter at **ChaoticDiamond**.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Disclaimer! Aside from my original characters and plot line, I do not own anything. This is published for entertainment purposes only. In order to save repetition and time, this disclaimer will apply to all subsequent chapters.

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**Chapter Two**

They start to meet each other twice a week, every Monday and every Thursday. It is a silent agreement between the two of them, an occurrence that happens naturally. They enjoy the meetings; they are comforted by the establishment of a routine. The meetings fill a void for the both of them. They gave one another a figurative shoulder to cry on, and an escape from the world around them. To the soldier, the meetings provide a sense of solace and consistency that he had not felt for quite some time.

They only meet in the coffee shop, and they always order the same thing. The soldier orders a medium coffee, black; the woman orders a small latte. It is their routine, their plan. They go through the motions, for the sake of enjoying the company, the comfort, that only they can provide one another.

The couple rarely engage in conversation, for neither party feels the need to speak. Their words to each other are silent; they are expressed through their motions, their body language. They do nothing more than sit at a small table, preferably in the more secluded corner of the shop, and drink their coffee. It is quiet, yet they both find the arrangement to be comforting, therapeutic. They are two troubled souls; two troubled, confused souls that are subconsciously craving to be mended. Yvonne and James are in need of one another, in need of the distractions provided by the each other's company.

The young woman knows that the soldier is full of deep, dark secrets, and that he is also full of regret. She knows that his oversized jacket, as well as the baseball cap upon his head, is his way of hiding from the world. It is his version of a security blanket. She notices that, not unlike their very first meeting, he chooses to avoid eye contact. He continues to stare only at the steaming cup of coffee in front of him, avoiding the inquisitive glances from the other customers in the shop. She recognizes that there is something that haunts the man, and that he carries an enormous weight upon his shoulders. But she also realizes that he does not wish to spill his secrets, his thoughts, to her. He is not ready to acknowledge the shadows that plague him.

And just like how the woman has been studying the soldier, the man has been studying the dark-haired female across the table from him. Based on her simplistic attire, he is able to infer that Yvonne is a girl that does not wish to draw attention to herself. She is one who chooses to avoid the spotlight, even though her petite frame and innocent features are working against her. She is a beautiful girl, and that trait, alone, attracts the attention that she wishes to avoid. She has a presence that draws one towards her, which is the reason why the soldier found himself spending so much of his time with her.

Yvonne is a girl who appreciates minimalism. She has never shown to one of their meetings adorned in a loud print; instead, she has consistently opted to wear a dress of one color, often a shade of blue, that is free of any sort of embellishment. He notes that aside from the gold band on the index finger of her right hand, she never wears jewelry; her ears are even free of any piercings. The soldier also notices that she always wears the same pair of worn-down, tan sandals to every single one of their meetings. She also has a few tiny splatters of paint on her skin and her hair, leading the man to believe that she is an artist, specifically, a painter.

Her hair is a bit more unkempt than normal, and, as usual, her face is completely free of makeup. James also notices that she is showing more skin today, due to the surprisingly high humidity consuming the air outside. She is dressed in a spaghetti strap, lavender dress, which exposes the abundance of scars that litter her upper arms and shoulders.

Yvonne can feel the man's eyes examining her; his intense gaze focusing and taking note of every little imperfection on her body. She is unsure if she should tell him her story, unsure if she should reveal the pieces of her that she usually keeps secure, hidden. She wants him to know, but she is also terrified of letting the man in. The woman takes a sip of her latte and decides that it is a risk worth taking.

"There was a person in my life," she begins to explain, "a person I wish had never been a piece of my world." She pauses in her words, and takes a large breath of air. Her mind is struggling to piece together sentences, and she realizes that she has never before spoken to anyone about what happened to her in her youth. "He liked to hurt me, this man. He would mutilate me whenever he found my actions displeasing. His favorite toys were his knives, but he also had a fondness for fire. A fondness that he expressed whenever he was feeling more adventurous than normal."

She notices that his grip on his coffee cup has tightened, and that a hint of anger has appeared in his eyes. After a moment of hesitation, she places her hands on top of his own. She wants to calm him down; she wants to soothe him. The woman does not want to see the solder's face full of anger. She does not want to upset him, and she does not want to burden him with her troubles, her past.

For a moment, she regrets her words. She regrets exposing herself. Yvonne wants to take back her actions, and keep her secrets locked up within her mind.

But it is too late now. The words have been released; the deed has been done.

"It doesn't matter anymore," she states. "My past is my past. What he did to me doesn't define me, nor does it determine my future. Only I can determine the person I am; only I can choose to become the person I will be as the years go by. His actions are nightmares that I no longer dwell on."

James raises his eyes to meet her own, and his grip on his cup of coffee slackens. Their eyes are locked now, exchanging emotions of sorrow, anger, fear, and regret. There are feelings of confusion and worry, and there's a hint of hopelessness present. The moment is intense, emotional, even painful, for the both of them. Their energy is overwhelming, their blood is rushing, and their heads are spinning. The soldier can see the pain clouding the woman's eyes; he can see the tears that are threatening to appear. He raises his hand towards her face, attempting to give her a gesture of comfort, but he is quick to withdraw himself away from her.

Their gaze now broken, Yvonne takes a moment to slow her beating heart and quiet her active brain. The soldier does the same, and tries to stabilize his hands that now have a slight tremor in them.

"What happened to you, James?" Yvonne questions, when they have finally both calmed down. "What has the world done to you?"

He tries to arrange his thoughts; he tries to formulate sentences, but he finds it a difficult task in his current state of mind. "I was a soldier," he says after a long pause, "and I saw a lot of people die. I was given orders, and I followed them without question. They told me that I was doing the right thing, that I was making this world a better, safer place, but now I am not so sure."

"Do you think you are a bad person, James?"

He does not answer her immediately. He ponders over the question for a few moments, but he realizes that he knew the answer long before the question had been raised. "Yes," he whispers.

"You shouldn't believe that."

"Why? Why shouldn't I? I have killed people, many people." The solider swallowed a lump in his throat. "I ended countless lives. I was a pawn to people who wanted to play God."

"You were used, yes, but that does not mean you are a bad person."

He realizes that her words are not only meant for him, but for herself as well. He realizes that in some form, Yvonne was, or still is, a pawn in somebody else's plan. They were pieces in a game that neither of them had control over. Both are helpless, and are desperately hoping to reach the end of the game. To finally see the ending, and be released from their duties. He understands that they are similar in a way he did not believe would be possible: they are both forced to follow the instructions of someone who wants to be superior to the world.

"I don't think you are a bad person, James. I think that you were used, abused, taken advantage of. I think that you are angry at the world, and that you are angry with your life. I think that whatever you went through is not fair, and I find it sad that it has destroyed you as much as it has. I believe that you have lived a life of unfortunate circumstances, but I do not believe that you are a bad person."

He wants to believe her words, so desperately. He wants to believe that she is telling him the truth. He wants to believe that he is a good person, and that his sins are forgiven. He would like to think that his actions were out of his control, and that he does not deserve to be punished for the missions that he completed.

But he knows that Yvonne is wrong. She is so horribly wrong. He had believed himself to be doing the right thing; he believed that his actions, that his completed assignments, were all accomplishments that would contribute to the greater good of humanity. But he realizes that a good person would not assassinate someone. They would not murder a person, regardless of their sins. A good person would not follow orders to terminate over two thousand lives.

Oh, how simple it would be, if he could only believe her words.

"I know you don't believe me right now. I know that you find it difficult to comprehend the possibility that you might be a person with a good soul. You have committed actions that an ordinary human being never has to face."

"I want to believe you," the man whispers.

"One day, James, I hope you will."

To him, her words were lies. They were empty promises, and little more than phrases meant to comfort him.

No, James is not a good person.

His soul is tainted, and brewing sin. The only person more disgusting, more soiled, would be the Devil himself.

There is no saving him, no salvation to be seen in the horizon. James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes could never be saved from his sins. He is nothing more than a destroyed man, with a condemned soul.

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Word Count: 1,877

Published: Thursday, 17 April 2014

Thank you for reading! And if you should choose so, it would be lovely to hear some feedback from you all. Be sure to follow my **Tumblr** and **Twitter**, you can find me under the name **ChaoticDiamond**. There, I will be releasing updates and bonus content that did not (or will not) make the cut for my stories.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Thanks for the support, everyone! Please leave some feedback, it really helps me out.

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**Chapter Three**

Painting is Yvonne's method of escaping from the world. The canvas is the doorway that leads away from her reality, and her paintbrush is the key that releases her from all of her pain, her suffering. Painting is what takes her away from the brutality, the cruelty of humanity. Through her artwork, Yvonne is allowed to release her anger. For a short while, she is able to unlock all of the chains that hold her mind captive. Art is the only way for her to experience the gift of freedom.

The woman never plans out her projects. She never composes a sketch, not even a rough layout. There is no defined intention, no expectation for the end result. She does what her impulse, her energy, tells her to do. Her hand moves subconsciously to create her work. The woman's craft is organic and raw. The end result is in the most pure of forms. Each canvas captures a specific moment in her life, a moment that she will never be able to recreate. Her emotions, her thoughts, are captured in her art. Yvonne finds that this method of expression prevents her from going insane. She has the freedom to speak her mind, without ever saying a single word.

She is a fan of portraits, which is evident from the many pieces scattered around her studio. She likes to take different qualities from the people she comes across and combine them to create a new identity. She will take the eyes from one woman, the mouth from another, and the nose from someone else, to create a new face on the canvas. Her only rule being: never produce a true, complete portrait of someone she has seen.

Today, she is breaking her rule. She is changing her habits.

She is painting the soldier, James. She paints his defined jawline and his usual stoic expression, with a touch of sadness glinting in his eyes. He is her first planned painting, and Yvonne wants to capture him perfectly; she plans to bring him to life on her canvas. She paints him in black, with several shades of blue, and a few splashes of the color red.

The soldier's features are fascinating to the young artist. She noticed that sketches of his face came to her easily, and filled the pages of her small sketchbook. He is the first subject that she examines so thoroughly; the first face that is flawlessly imprinted into her memory. She finds the man to be the perfect specimen, the perfect model.

Focused entirely on her painting, she does not hear the sound of the door of the art gallery opening, nor does she notice the loud footsteps of the person making their way across the large room. "Yvonne!" The person shouts, startling the young woman. In her fright, she drops her paintbrush, and nearly knocks over the canvas.

"I'm in the back room," she replies, sighing.

During its descent towards the floor, the paintbrush had hit the canvas, leaving a large blotch of blue paint on the cheek of her subject.

The person laughs, "I should have known. You and your artwork are nearly inseparable." A tall man with dark brown hair walks through the door of her creative studio, and makeshift office. "I brought you some food," he says.

"Hugo, you ruined my painting," Yvonne complains.

He glances at the canvas and shrugs. "I'm sure you can fix it, Yvonne. There is a reason why everyone praises your artistic abilities."

The woman sighs and rolls her eyes. "Fixing it is going to be a lot more work than I originally anticipated to be doing."

"Well, it's your only option now." Hugo walks over to his sister, and places a quick, soft kiss on her cheek, before he pulls a sandwich out of a paper bag. He places the sandwich gently on a nearby table, before pulling out another one for himself.

"Hugo, I know you're my brother, but you need to stop waltzing in here whenever you please."

"Oh, Yvonne, don't be such a whiner. You need to stop being startled by my company. You should know by now that I enjoy my sporadic appearances."

"I don't enjoy your 'sporadic appearances,'" Yvonne mutters.

Hugo frowns. "Thanks, Sis, I love you, too."

Yvonne returns her attention back to her ruined painting. _And I was making so much progress_, she mentally complains.

"Yvonne, I don't want to lecture you, _again_, but you've got to stop your habit of leaving the gallery unattended. You know that there are quite a few expensive pieces out there." Hugo unwraps his sandwich and takes a bite.

"Nobody is going to steal a painting, Hugo."

"I'm pretty inclined to steal expensive artwork, especially _unattended_ expensive artwork," he mutters.

"It's not like there's a Picasso out there," Yvonne defends. "Besides, the paintings are bolted to the walls. It would be quite difficult for someone to stroll in and take a painting without making some sort of ruckus."

Hugo sighs, "You still need to be more careful, Yvonne. You're in here alone, ninety-five percent of the time. And you're always back here painting, instead of working."

"I'm an artist; it's what I do."

"You just need to be more self-aware. It might not always be me that scares you."

"Hugo, nobody comes in the gallery anyways."

"Yvonne," His voice is stern; the woman takes note of the frustration laced within his words. He is growing tired with their conversation.

"Okay, I'll be more 'self-aware,'" she agrees.

Hugo smirks, obviously satisfied with her response. "You know, people might actually come in here if you would display your lovely face more often."

The artist rolls her eyes, and picks up her dropped paintbrush. "Oh, shut up, Hugo."

Her brother laughs before taking another bite from his sandwich. Noticing his sister's sketchbook, he abandons his meal in order to examine the contents of the book. He observes that her most recent sketches revolve around one man, and he sends a wary glance to his sister. "You've done a lot of work with him," he states.

"With who?" Yvonne questions.

"The soldier," Hugo replies.

Hugo's watchful eyes notice his sister freeze momentarily in her work. Her shoulders are tensed and her breathing pattern alters slightly. "He has nice features," she states, half-heartedly.

"Nice features?"

"He has quite the defined jawline," she defends. "And his eyes are quite intriguing. They're sad, and they're lonely. They are the eyes of a man in pain, a man that has been through hardship."

"If I didn't know better, I would think that you've got a thing for the soldier." There is no humor in Hugo's voice, which raises Yvonne's level of anxiety.

"Don't be ridiculous. I am looking at him from a completely artistic point-of-view."

Hugo sets aside the sketchbook and steps closer to his sister. "Dad wants to know about your progress on the project."

"Tell him that everything is fine."

"He says that you've been taking a bit longer than normal."

Yvonne sighs and sets down her paintbrush. "It's a difficult assignment, Hugo. He needs to be patient."

"Are you even trying, Yvonne?" He questions.

"Of course I am!" She is growing more annoyed by the second. "I know what I'm doing, Hugo. This kind of work takes time."

"I know that you know how to do your job." He pulls up a chair and sits down next to her. "You just seem so distracted, especially these past few weeks. What's the matter, Sis? Are you okay?"

"Everything is fine, Hugo." Her voice is monotone.

"'Fine' is not an answer that is reassuring."

"Everything is _okay_, Hugo." She is mocking him now.

"The soldier is a distraction, isn't he?" Hugo's voice is sour, and Yvonne knows that a lecture is soon to come.

"No, he is not a distraction."

"He can't be an issue, Yvonne."

"Hugo, he is not an issue."

"You don't even know the man." Her brother states.

"You haven't been studying him, Hugo!" She yells.

"You've been doing this for years, Yvonne, and you choose now to suddenly have," he pauses, struggling to find the proper word, "a_ conscience_?" He stands up and walks across the office, violently knocking down one of her paintings along the way. "Dad says that this client is important, powerful. If we don't live up to our end of the bargain, they will kill us, Yvonne."

The air surrounding the siblings is uncomfortable, full of tension. "You don't have to call him 'Dad' whenever it's just you and me. Nobody is here, you don't have to worry about keeping up appearances."

"Some people don't hate him as much as you do, myself included." He replies bitterly.

"How could you ever like him?" She questions.

"Dad," he pauses, "Adrien is not a terrible man."

"Yes, he is."

"Yvonne, the man gave us a home. He provided us with a roof above our heads." Hugo walks back towards his sister and reoccupies his previously abandoned chair.

"He took us, Hugo," she argues.

"From the streets! The man took us from the streets!" He takes ahold of his sister's hand and lowers his voice for his next words. "We were two dumb kids, starving on the streets. What else were we supposed to do?"

Yvonne wrenches her hand away from her brother. "We could have stayed on the streets."

"We would have died."

"I would rather be dead on the streets."

"You don't mean that."

"I know what I'm saying, Hugo," she defends. "Do you want this? Do you actually enjoy this lifestyle that we're living?"

"Yvonne, it's better than having no life at all. Accepting his offer is what kept us alive!"

"By accepting his offer, we signed a contract with the Devil, Hugo. He's holding us captive, and he's got you wrapped around his finger."

"Yvonne, stop, we've had this conversation a thousand times."

"And we'll have it a thousand more, at this rate."

"You're such an ingrate," Hugo mutters.

"How could you say that to me?"

"We wouldn't even be here, except your dumb ass decided to run away from home!" His voice is hostile now; his anger spewing out with every syllable he speaks.

Yvonne's feels her stomach drop. "I couldn't stay there; he was torturing me," she whispers.

He turns his back to her, "I've had enough of this conversation."

"Did you expect me to stay there? To let him do as he pleases? You've seen the scars, Hugo!" She is screaming now, furious with the man in the room. "Do you need to see them again? Would you like a visual reminder of what I went through?"

Her brother's face softens. "I'm sorry, Yvonne. I have no right to blame you for leaving." He places his left hand on her shoulder, his other hand cups her cheek. "You were scared, and you were running out of options. You know that I came with you because I love you, right? I couldn't leave my baby sister to fend for herself."

A sad smile appears on Yvonne's face. "I know, Hugo."

He pulls away from his sister and walks toward the far wall of her office. The wall is completely covered, full of pictures and documents pertaining to the Winter Soldier. His eyes scan over the information, following the timeline created by Yvonne. "You can't feel sorry for him," he finally states.

"You haven't read his file, Hugo," she replies.

"I've never seen you grow attached to an assignment before."

"This one is different."

Hugo glances towards his sister. "What's special about this one?"

"There's no one else like him," she says. "Can you imagine what it must feet like? To wake up one day, with no memory of your past. You don't know who you are, you don't remember anything that you've done." She takes a few steps closer to the wall, her gaze focused on a specific picture of the soldier, one taken in 1943. The man is dressed in uniform, a huge smile plastered to his face. Beside him is his best friend, Steve Rogers.

"You're confused, and you don't realize that you're different from the rest of humanity. Seventy years go by, and you watch as the world around you evolves, in every aspect. Time is flying by, and everything is growing older, but not you. You're stuck in your own timeline, your own internal clock. You spend, roughly, seventy years as an assassin; seventy years toying with humanity, altering the future. The world believes you to be a myth, a ghost to society. But you know that you're real, the people you work for know that you're real. You're a ghost to everyone, except the people who are using you.

"And you watch them age. You watch people grow old, die. Yet, every time you glance at your reflection in a mirror, you look exactly the same as yesterday, and the day before." Yvonne glances at a more recent photo of the Winter Soldier. His hair is longer, shielding his facial features from the camera. It is an alleged photo of the assassin, but the resemblance is striking. "He's special," she states.

Hugo sighs. "What's going through that head of yours, Yvonne?"

"Nothing."

"C'mon," Hugo begs, "fill me in. Let me understand that smart, little brain of yours."

She hesitates, and mentally debates over whether to say the words she longs to speak. "I can't do it, Hugo," she whispers, giving in. "I can't let you kill him." She feels a tear escape, leaving a trail down her cheek. "He's not a bad person; he's no monster."

"Our job isn't to ask questions. We complete the assignment, regardless of our opinions." He grabs her shoulders and leans down to be eye level with her. "Don't get soft now, Yvonne. Not with this one. You've done this a hundred times; you're good at what you do. All you have to do is find him. You know that I'll take care of the rest."

"It's different this time. I'm not in the right state of mind," she shakes her head. "My mind is compromised."

Hugo pulls Yvonne into a hug. "Don't say that," he whispers. "I need you to focus."

"I don't think I can." She desperately clutches her brother, wishing for an escape from reality.

"Tell me what you need, Yvonne. You know that I'll give you anything."

"I want to leave, Hugo. I want an out."

"You know that's not possible."

"I can't do this anymore. I can't be an accessory to any more murders." She can feel her strength escaping from her; she can feel the terrible sensation of hopelessness sinking into her core. "Run away with me, Hugo," she begs, "just like we did seven years ago."

The man sighs, and tightens his hold on the petite woman. "Adrien will find us, you know that. He will find us, and he will kill us."

"We've got to try. I don't know how much longer I can last."

He shuts his eyes, and desperately wishes to take away all of his sister's pain. She is his baby sister, and he would do anything to protect her. "Okay," Hugo whispers, "we'll get away from here."

"Really?"

"Really," he assures. He tucks a strand of Yvonne's hair behind her ear and gives her a small smile. "We complete this job, this one last job, and we'll be out of here before Adrien can realize that we've gone."

"Don't lie to me, Hugo," her voice breaks.

"I promise you, Yvonne. I promise that after this job we will escape from this life. We'll go somewhere new, different; we'll go to a location where Adrien won't be able to find us."

"I love you, Hugo."

Her brother's grin widens. "I know you do, Sis. And I love you, too. It's just the two of us."

"It always has been."

"It's you and me against the world, Yvonne."

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Words: 2,662

Published: Friday, 25 April 2014

**A/N: **Be sure to check me out on my **Tumblr**, you can find me at **ChaoticDiamond**. And I hope you enjoyed the chapter, I know that Bucky didn't make an appearance, which is a bit heartbreaking, but this chapter was definitely necessary for the plot. I've also decided to up the rating of the story, just as a precaution. The following chapters will be a bit darker.

Also! I have up to chapter five written, and am currently working on chapter six, but I've got several exams coming up (this week and the week after). While that should not affect any writing, it could affect whether I will be able to edit and publish the next chapter. I do not expect any complications to arise, but be prepared for an unexpected delay.

**lovinurbuks**: You left a review for the first chapter, but it completely slipped my mind to send you a thank you! So thank you for leaving some feedback. I hope you enjoy the story. :)

**Yakitori-Chan**: Thank you so much! I'm currently taking a poetry class right now, which is most definitely influencing my writing style at the moment. Thanks for your feedback!

**tinseltown**: Thank you! At the moment, I am planning to release ten chapters, maybe eleven, for this story.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N****: **Thank you for continuing to read my story! This one is definitely darker than the previous chapters, and I'm afraid that it won't get much happier from this point on. Just a warning, the contents of this chapter are borderline graphic, and may trigger strong emotions from some. To avoid spoilers, I will discuss the contents of this chapter at the end.

Oh! And would anybody be interested in reading a Steve Rogers/OC story? Because I have a plot line floating in my head and I wonder if anyone would be at least interested in checking it out.

And on another side note, I have a Loki/OC fiction posted (which is not yet complete). You can check it out if you want, but I will be revamping it as soon as I finish writing this story, which will be relatively soon! After I finish editing, I will start updating the story once more.

* * *

**Chapter Four**

She does not have fear of the night. The darkness does not frighten her, nor do the potential dangers that lurk in the safety of the shadows.

During the night, the world winds down. Traffic slows, and for momentary periods, it becomes non-existent. The people sleep, hoping to rejuvenate themselves before the sun rises, the signal for the start of a new day. Night is the time when the sins of humanity are committed without fear. The stench of adultery fills the air, and the screams of murder appear on occasion. The darkness creates a safety net for the sinners; a security blanket that hides all of their secrets, their naughtiest of behaviors.

It is the time where those who remain awake allow themselves to relinquish into this brief freedom, this momentary release from all of their burdens. As the rest of civilization sleeps, those who stay awake are able to express themselves, in all of the ways that they cannot expose during the light of day. Their ability of control is lost, allowing them to live, to explore each and every moment.

And this loss of constraint is what Yvonne loves most about the nighttime. She immerses herself into this rare moment of freedom. For a few brief hours, she is given the opportunity to explore how it feels to be free. To be free of loss, of pain, of restraint. The woman can push her troubles back into the very far corners of her mind, and see the world outside of the bars that keep her trapped.

Despite the amount of time she spends staring up at the sky, she still finds the stars captivating. For hours upon hours, she spends her time staring at the night sky, fascinated by every single twinkling light. The woman can point out every constellation in the sky, having committed them all into her memory. It is a difficult task for her to pull her gaze away from the stars, for being among the stars is the place that she longs to be.

There was a time in her life where she strived to be an astronaut. She wanted to explore the universe, to learn about the stars that she adores so much. _How wonderful it must feel_, she would wonder, _to gaze down at the world from outer space_. To realize how trivial human existence is, in comparison to the universe. Earth is nothing more than one tiny planet, one tiny, very minuscule planet, in comparison to the larger picture.

When she had first met Adrien, she felt that there would be hope for a brighter future. For awhile, she believed that her dreams to see the world, the universe, could possibly come true. Being from a small town in the state of Louisiana, her goals seemed unobtainable. She was born into a family with little-to-no money, and her father's anger, and loathing of life, was taken out on her.

She was quick to learn that Adrien's kindness was nothing more than a sham. And her dreams were quick to crumble into pieces as she realized the gravity of the situation she had managed to get herself into. Now, she knows that Adrien will never allow her to reach for her goals. He keeps her hidden from the world, and refuses to allow her to pursue the college education that she so desperately wishes she could obtain. The man is manipulative, and he has the girl trapped in this town that she hates so much.

"You shouldn't be outside at this hour," a voice calls behind the woman, pulling her from the depths of her mind.

Yvonne freezes, mid-step, and slowly turns to glance at the source of the voice. She frowns, noticing that there are three men trailing behind her. They are all quite large, covered with visibly bulging muscles. Small smirks are plastered onto their faces, and to her dismay, she realizes that they are reeking of alcohol.

"You wouldn't want anything _tragic_ to happen to that pretty face of yours, would you?" A man with light brown hair questions.

"C'mon, baby, let's get you back home," the third man, a blond, suggests.

"I'm perfectly capable of walking back on my own," Yvonne replies.

"Darling, you know that it isn't safe out here, don't you?" The man with black hair steps forward, his smirk growing in size. "I'm Derek," he introduces himself, as his eyes roam the petite woman's body. "That guy is Mark," he points to the man with light brown hair, "and the other guy is Louis." The blond gives her a small wave.

"I've heard that bad things tend to happen to girls who wander alone at night," Louis states. "We just want to make sure that nothing bad happens to you."

She notices that the men have gradually inched their way closer to her. Yvonne takes a cautious step back, which the men are quick to match. The woman desperately wants to maintain her distance from the drunken men, and makes it her primary goal to remain far away from their reach. "Thank you for your concern, boys, but I think I can manage on my own."

"See, I'm not so sure about that," Derek states. "I would hate to see your pretty face plastered in all the papers," he pauses, and makes a point to lock his eyes with the young woman. "Underneath a headline saying something along the lines of '_young woman brutally raped and murdered_.'"

Yvonne can feel her nerves begin to consume her; she can feel her confidence rapidly decline. Stumbling over a crack in the sidewalk, she knows that her confident girl exterior is slipping away. "I'm afraid that's a chance I'm going to have to take," she replies, her voice not nearly as strong as she longs it be. The woman knows that it is futile to attempt to conceal her increasing fear; her words are already laced with dread.

Mark lunges towards her, and firmly grips her left arm. "I can almost taste your fear," he hisses into her ear. He slams her against a nearby wall, before placing an arm on either side of her body. "It's a bit of a turn-on, to be honest," he chuckles.

"It would be wise for you to let me go."

"Yeah?" He questions. "And why would I let you go, girlie?" He places his right hand loosely around her small neck, while his left hand begins to explore the curves of her body. "I've got a nice treat right here in front of me."

She is terrified now, and she does little to hide her fear. She feels afraid, and she feels hopeless. The street is completely abandoned, aside from the four of them. And she recognizes the fact that there was no way she could possibly fend off three burly men, all by herself. The men are at least a foot taller than her, and three times in body mass. She is weak; she unable to defend herself.

"No one is coming to save you, little lady," Derek says.

Pulling her away from the wall, Mark shoves her down onto the sidewalk. Kneeling down to hover above her, he pins her to the ground, while Louis pulls out a piece of cloth.

"No one is going to hear you scream," Louis states.

Yvonne does her best to fight off the men, but she knows that it is a hopeless task. Strangling her, Louis is able to easily pry her mouth open, and he shoves the cloth inside. The young woman gags on the taste, but soon realizes that a dirty cloth is the least of her worries at the moment. From the corner of her eye, she sees Derek pull out a roll of duct tape. He tears off a piece and covers Yvonne's mouth with it.

"I've got a feeling that this one is going to be more fun than the others," Mark comments. "I'm looking forward to a good time tonight." He leans in closer to the girl he has pinned to the pavement. "You better not disappoint me, girl."

The woman closes her eyes, accepting her fate. In a few moments, she would be a victim to a terrible crime. Her body would be tainted by three strangers in the middle of the night. This is her life now, this is her reality. And there is absolutely nothing that she can do to stop the events that are about to occur. She decides that it is easier to not struggle, it is easier to let them have their way. Years of abuse and torture have taught her to accept her reality, accept the pain that is bound to occur. She knows now that abstaining from struggle prevents her abuser from subjecting her to more pain. Tears begin to stream down her face, and she panics when her body notices that she is not breathing in enough oxygen. She is hyperventilating through her nose, and she begins to see black spots in her vision.

In her panicked state of mind, she does not notice when Mark is pulled away from her. She does not notice the loud smack as Derek is punched in the face, and she does not hear the thud of him hitting the ground. She does not see Louis get thrown into the wall of the building, nor does she see Mark aggressively kicked in the stomach.

"What the fuck, man?!" Derek shouts. He stands up, his adrenaline kicking in. "Who the hell do you think you are? Can't you count, asshole? There's three of us, and only one of you." He gets up close to the man who punched him, and falters slightly when he notices the cold, hard gaze that the man is giving him.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Derek throws a punch at the stranger's face, which he is able to easily dodge. The man aims a strong punch into Derek's stomach, and grabs a hold of the man's neck with his left, metal hand. He tightens his grip on the dark-haired man's throat, planning to let the man suffocate to death.

A dazed Louis steps away from the wall of the building. His head is spinning, but he can see his friend struggling to be released from the hand of the stranger. He stumbles towards him, mindlessly swinging his fists in their general direction, hoping to hit the man that had appeared out of nowhere.

Noticing the stumbling blond coming towards him, the man releases his grip from Derek. He punches the dark-haired man, and the drunken man falls down to the ground, unconscious and gushing blood from his nose. He turns his focus towards the blond-haired man. Grabbing him by his medium-length locks, he slams his head into the wall, rendering him unconscious as well. He can hear the footsteps of the third man racing towards him, and without glancing back, the stranger manages to aim a powerful punch into the brunette's nose.

Mark falls to the ground, yelling profanities and clutching his bleeding, broken nose. He can feel the blood gushing, leaking between his fingers and dripping into his open mouth. The stranger kneels down, grabs the brunette by the front of his shirt, and silences him with a punch to his temple. Releasing the now unconscious man, he turns his attention to the woman laying on the ground.

He notices that she is dazed, confused. She is in a state of shock, and she is still hyperventilating. He is careful as he pulls off the duct tape that is covering her mouth. And he is quick to pull out the cloth that had been shoved into it. He combs his fingers through her hair, hoping to calm down the panicking woman in his arms.

Somehow, it works.

Her eyes focus on him, and her jumbled mind begins to reorganize itself. She recognizes his blue eyes, his long, shaggy hair, his lips, and finally, she processes his jawline. It is the soldier. The man she had miraculously found in a small coffee shop; the man she was assigned to find; the man she is meant to terminate. The man who saved her, the man who is currently holding her within his arms, is the man who has been altering her perspective since the moment they first met.

"James?" She questions.

He nods his head in affirmation.

"How did you, I mean," she is fumbling with her words, too discombobulated to form literate sentences. "You saved me," she manages to say.

"Yeah," he replies.

She feels a new wave of tears leak from her eyes, and she pulls the soldier closer to her, burying her face into his chest. "I was so scared," she cries, "I thought that nobody would save me." Her voice cracks, and she struggles to breathe. "I thought that they would take me out here, in the middle of the sidewalk, and nobody would ever even know."

"I won't let anyone harm you," he comforts her.

He allows her to cry, and he does not protest when he realizes that her tears are soaking his thin shirt. Unsure of what to do, he settles on resting his hand on her back. He does not move while the woman cries; he lets her release her emotions, without distraction.

It takes awhile for her to calm down. It takes awhile for her heart to stop racing, for her emotions to stop rushing. "Thank you," she whispers.

"Let's get you back home," the soldier suggests.

"Yeah," she agrees, "that would probably be best." She releases her grip on the man, and focuses on stabilizing her shaking legs.

The soldier stands up, before offering his hand to Yvonne.

Grateful, she grabs it and tries to pull herself to a standing position as well. Unfortunately, her legs are too weak, and her knees buckle underneath her.

James is quick to catch the girl, pulling her frail body close to himself.

"I guess I'm still a bit shaken-up," she frowns.

The man leans down to loop his arm underneath the woman's knees. As he straightens his body, he effortlessly picks her up. "It's fine," he says. "I understand. Just tell me where to go; I'll take you back."

They travel back to her home in silence; the only noise being Yvonne's vocalized directions back to her home. The incident is still processing in her mind, her situation is still digesting. The young woman is still in a state of shock, still unable to fully comprehend what has happened to her.

The soldier clutches her to himself, hoping that his presence will somehow provide her with the comfort that she needs. He wants to keep her safe; he wants to protect her from the cruelty of the world. James knows that the woman has already faced much hardship in her life, and he wishes to spare her from facing even more.

They come to a halt in front of a small, beige home. The house is extraordinarily average, with no distinguishable features, no personality. It is the most plain, the most average of homes. There are no decorations, and there is no blade of grass that is even a fraction out of place. The home is not meant to draw attention, it is meant to be easily dismissed, forgotten.

James is reluctant to release the woman from his grasp; he fears that releasing her will expose her to more danger. Fighting his instincts, he places her back onto her feet.

The woman reaches into the pocket of her cardigan and pulls out a chain of keys. Her hands are shaking, fumbling to open the door of her home. "Thank you," she whispers.

Yvonne's hesitance to open the door does not escape the observant eyes of the soldier. He can see her hand resting on the doorknob, ready to turn it, but there is something that is stopping her. There is something that prevents her from entering the safety of her home.

She realizes that she does not want to leave the comfort of the man beside her. She realizes that she does not want to be alone. Tonight, she is afraid. She is afraid of the darkness, afraid of the shadows of the night. She is afraid to be without the company of another. The artist turns to face the soldier; she wants to beg him to spend the night, but she is unable to speak.

The air between them is thick, filled with a wide array of different emotions. They are both at a loss for words. And like the majority of their conversations, they communicate through their body language, and through the emotions that are revealed by their eyes.

The woman takes a tentative step closer to the man, placing her hand on his cheek. She takes a leap of faith. She decides to trust her instincts, and pulls James closer to her. Closing her eyes, she crashes her lips onto those of the tall man, expressing her emotions through her actions. She wants to tell him how she feels. She wants him to understand the thoughts that are racing through her mind. She wants to be direct, clear, about her feelings.

The soldier's body tenses slightly. He is stunned, confused about the situation. It takes a few moments, but finally, he relaxes, and he responds to the woman, pulling her even closer to himself.

The kiss is passionate, and it is desperate. It expresses their abundance of emotions. They unite in their confusion, and in their need for comfort. The couple find freedom in one another, a freedom that has been taken away from them for so long.

Nervous, and slightly embarrassed, the woman pulls away. "You could stay, you know, for the night," she states.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," he whispers.

The woman releases a quiet laugh. "I'm not known for making the brightest of decision." She feels the soldier begin to step away, but she fights him, tightening her grip on the man. "But I understand what I'm saying. I understand the severity of my words. I know the potential consequences, and I know that you think that my head is not where it should be. I was almost raped, but you saved me."

"I should go." He attempts to pull himself out of her grip.

"No," she fights him. "I want you to stay."

"I cannot stay the night, Yvonne," the man's voice is pained.

"I need you to stay, James," she begs.

"You've been through a traumatic experience; you'll regret this in the morning."

She raises her gaze to meet his, and places her right hand on the side of his neck. "You're afraid that I'll accuse you of taking advantage of me. You're afraid that my words are too spontaneous, that my decision is in the heat of the moment. You believe that I feel compelled to thank my savior, in the most intimate of ways. You believe that my thoughts are irrational, that I cannot think clearly because I've kissed you, under undesirable circumstances."

"Yvonne," he whispers. "I can't."

"I won't regret it. I know it sounds strange, crazy, but I understand what I'm saying. My head has never been so clear, so rational. Nothing has ever felt so right." She takes a deep breath, before straightening her posture. "Being with you, James, it feels so _correct_. You provide me with a comfort that I have never felt in my entire life. With you, I feel safe. I feel like you understand me in a way that no one else in the entire universe can. You protect me from this terrible world that we live in. You save me from this tragedy, this horrible gift that calls itself life."

"You don't know me, Yvonne. You don't know about the horrible things that I have done."

"I don't care about your past. I don't care about your sins. I don't care about any of the terrible things, the terrible crimes, that you believe you've committed. I care about the man that is standing on my doorstep, the man in front me, at this very moment."

The soldier leans down to rest his forehead on the young artist. "I will only hurt you," he murmurs.

"Then hurt me," she whispers. "I don't care what you do to me, James. I need you. I want you. I trust you." She presses her lips to his once more, and she feels overwhelmed by the sensations that fill her entire being.

The man reluctantly breaks the kiss. "You shouldn't," he says. His voice is husky against her lips, and she can almost hear the internal dilemma that is screaming throughout his mind.

"I know you won't hurt me. I trust you to take care of me, James. I have faith in you."

"I think you have too much faith in me."

"Please, stay with me, James. Just for tonight. Don't let me be alone tonight."

He places his hands on the woman's cheeks, and he realizes that he is fighting a battle that he does not wish to win. So, he gives in. "Okay," he agrees, lowering his lips to hers.

* * *

Word Count: 3,550

Published: Thursday, 1 May 2014

**A/N**: Be sure to follow my **Tumblr** (ChaoticDiamond) for updates and bonus content. Also! I have posted a fan mix for Yvonne, which you can find on **8tracks **(link provided on my profile). People leave feedback, it helps me out quite a bit. :)

Just to address the almost rape scene. Yvonne did not put up much a fight, I know. And I realize that this behavior may be discomforting to some. Why didn't she fight? You may wonder. Shouldn't you fight off your rapist? Many attributes of Yvonne's character are based off of myself, I admit. Not everything, of course (I'm not tracking down an assassin). Without going into detail of my own experience, I can tell you that her response is a very disturbingly realistic reaction to the situation. Writing this chapter was very difficult for me, because I had to revisit events that I would much rather forget. I'm not sure what drove me to place this into her story, perhaps it was a need to tell my own, through fiction. But I wrote it, and I released it.

That being said, Yvonne is not a weak, submissive woman. She may seem that way at times, but I can assure you that she will not allow herself to be pushed over again and again. We're approximately halfway through this story (just a little bit under), and she's got some more character development to go through. The Yvonne you see now, and the Yvonne you will see in four/five chapters from now, are quite different.

**Kellyhorse**: Thanks for your review! Oh goodness, I haven't read many Bucky fanfics, to be honest (I tend to be quite picky about the stories I read); I really hope that my OC isn't following the trend that is apparently so popular. Without giving away any spoilers, I do want to say that Yvonne isn't a "stereotypical" spy, but that will be explained later. Anywho! Thank you for reading, and I hope you continue to do so. :)

**Sco:** Thank you for your feedback! Personally, I enjoy focusing on my OC, and discovering their backgrounds. Admittedly, this story will be quite focused on Yvonne and her story. Bucky just happens to be a piece of it.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**: Please leave some feedback; it really helps me out! And be sure to check out my **Tumblr** (ChaoticDiamond) for updates and bonus content. Also, one person voiced interest for a Steve/OC story, would anyone else be interested? Her story is vaguely tied in with Yvonne's, which is why I don't know whether or not to actually write and publish it.

There is not really much going on in this chapter, and for the longest time I was debating on whether or not to post it. Well, here it is. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Five**

He does not sleep that night, for his racing heart and his active thoughts prevent his mind from resting. He recalls the somewhat desperate journey through the halls of her house that lead to her small bedroom. The frantic motions of their clothes being pulled off one another, and the desperate need to be as close as possible. He remembers the overpowering sensations of being so intimately connected to another human being, to be so in sync with one other. Their bodies, and their minds, become one being.

Hours later, and he is still unable to turn off his mind. He watches as the nighttime passes by, and he is warmed by the sunlight that floods into the woman's plain bedroom. Her white curtains are sheer, and do little to block the warm rays of light. The soldier notices that the bedroom is a mess. The woman's entire wardrobe is strewn across the white marble of her floor. There is a haphazard stack of books in one corner of the room, and several dozen flowers fill an unnecessarily large vase on her desk. The flowers are wilting, but the faint scent of roses still permeate the air of the room.

A movement to his right draws his attention. There, he sees Yvonne sleeping peacefully, her breathing is swallow, steady. Her hand is resting on his chest, and her head is buried into his neck. His gaze travels down her bare back, examining the exposed skin. The artist's back is covered with blemishes, scars. A particularly grotesque mark, a long, straight scar that is perfectly following the pathway of her spine, captures his attention. His wishes to remove her blemishes, to take away every imperfection on her skin. He wants to remove any, and all, traces of the pain that she has endured in her short lifetime.

His metal hand runs itself through the dark strands of the woman's hair, and tucks an especially unruly strand behind her ear. It pains him as he realizes that he cannot feel her short tresses with his metal hand. He cannot feel the softness of her hair, the suppleness of the skin on her face. He can feel the raised bumps of her numerous scars, but he cannot feel the texture of each individual blemish. His feels inhuman, and he finds the thought to be disgusting. He is a destroyed being, a damaged product. He is an abandoned pawn, a game piece once manipulated into changing all of the rules.

Gradually succumbing to her awakening senses, Yvonne is surprised by the presence of another body in her queen sized bed. Underneath her right hand, she can feel the toned muscles of her bedmate. Inhaling, she recognizes the faint sandalwood smell of the soldier. Her mind recalls the events that occurred during the night, and she releases a soft, quiet sigh of relief.

Opening her eyes, she notices that James has his left, metal arm raised towards the ceiling. His pointed glare reveals his distaste for the limb.

"Do you hate it?" Yvonne questions, earning a sharp glance from the soldier. "Do you hate that metal arm of yours?"

"I find it," he pauses, "discomforting."

"How did you end up with it?"

"I fell," the soldier lowers his arm, "from a moving train."

The woman takes his hand, and intertwines her fingers with his own. She is fascinated by the image of her weak, human hand interlocked with the strong, robotic one. And she knows that if he squeezes hard enough, the soldier could very easily break every single bone in her hand.

Their conversation comes to a halt, neither party knowing the correct words to speak. They lay there for awhile, with their fingers laced together. They enjoy the silence; they enjoy the comfort of having company. Right now, they are not lonely. They have escaped from the realms of their own solitude, even if only for a moment.

"I wasn't sure if you would still be here in the morning," the woman confesses. "I thought that you might disappear while I was sleeping."

"I thought you had faith in me," he repeats her words. The words that she had confessed so openly the night before.

She smiles. "I do, but even the most trusting of people will have a shadow of doubt towards those they have put their faith in."

"You're a liar, Yvonne." The woman's smile falters at his words. The man is almost hesitant to continue his thought. "I can see the scars that cover your body. The world has been cruel to you, so you do not trust the world."

"I trust you," she responds. "I trust you enough to let you into my home. I trust you enough to share what we shared last night. I allowed you to see me in my most vulnerable state. There are not many people that I have faith in; you are one of the few."

The soldier's flesh hand trails down the large scar on the woman's back. The feeling of her blemished skin embeds itself into his mind. "I would take it away, you know, if I could," he whispers.

Yvonne is intrigued by his words. "What would you take away?"

"I would take away the scars that haunt you, the pain that still harms you."

A very small smile appears on her face, and she releases a quiet chuckle. "My scars are nothing more than imperfections. Stubborn trinkets from a period of time that I am not particularly found of."

"To lose memories is a terrible thing," James frowns, "but I would remove all of your painful memories, if I could."

"My flawed life is what makes me human, James. One cannot live a life without the pain that comes with it, the mistakes that they are bound to make."

"You don't deserve the hurt that you have felt."

Yvonne sits up on the bed, wrapping the white bed sheets around her body. "A lot of terrible things happen to people who don't deserve it."

The soldier's eyes focus on the woman's neck. It is bruised, with five marks that indicate where she had been violently grabbed by the men on the street. "I'd make you indestructible."

"I'm still here, aren't I? I'm still breathing; I'm still living. I don't have to be indestructible in order to be alive." She pulls his hand towards her heart, finding solace in the closeness between them.

"You claimed this life to be a tragedy, yet you so eagerly wish to experience it."

"What else am I supposed to do? One day, Death will come knocking on my door. And he's going to take me away from here, even if I'm not ready to leave. He will not care about my age, nor will he care about my accomplishments, or lack thereof. I might as well live to enjoy the moments that I can."

"And what joys do you have in this life?"

Yvonne smiles. "I've got a roof above my head, and today I've got company in my bed. I've got clothes to wear, and down the hall I have supplies for my craft. The world isn't a very happy place, so you've got to find the things that can bring a smile to your face." She crawls out of the bed, and rummages through her numerous piles of laundry. Settling on an oversized, light gray sweater, she pulls on the clothing as she drops the white sheet onto the floor. Sending a quick glance over her shoulder, she leaves the soldier in her bedroom.

Intrigued, James crawls out of bed. He pulls on his clothing, and then exits the bedroom, following the woman. As he walks down the hallway, he notices that, similar to her bedroom, the rest of the house is also a mess. Her incomplete artwork is scattered down the hall, laying abandoned on the floor, or leaning up against the walls. Splatters of paint cover the white floors, and portions of the white walls.

He finally finds her in the kitchen, fiddling with her coffee machine. "I have coffee, if you want some," she tells him. "But I'm afraid that's all I can offer, aside from a glass of water."

"No, thank you," he replies. His eyes focus on a rather large canvas. It sits, displayed on an easel in the center of what was meant to be her dining area. It is her current project, indicated by the paint palette resting on the stool placed in front of the piece.

The painting is colorful, full of blues, greens, and purples, with a few splashes of strategically placed yellow. Examining each brush stroke, he traces the outline of a pair of lips, and recognizes the defined jawline of the portrait. "You've been painting me," he states.

Yvonne freezes, unsure if she should confirm his suspicious. Her actions, however, reply to his statement, in place of her voice.

"You're painting me," he says again, taking a step closer to the canvas.

"I am," she confirms, verbally.

"Why?"

She hesitates, embarrassed by her next words. "I can't seem to get your face out of my mind." An awkward pause follows her confession. "Your face is a rather captivating model," she clarifies.

"You're quite talented."

The artist walks up to him, stopping to observe the work herself. "That's what I've been told," she replies. "People tell me that I'm some sort of art prodigy, but I just do what I want."

"Do you sell them?"

She laughs. "If I can. It's a struggle to sell things that many people don't care for."

"You're hardly struggling, if you've got a home like this."

He notices her shuffle her feet awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable by the direction of the conversation. "I'm definitely not your typical 'starving artist.' This house was a gift, from my father. He complained that my work was taking up too much space in our home."

He takes note of the bitterness clearly apparent in her voice. "You don't care much for your father," the soldier observes.

"He's not your average person," she says. "He's a person that I would rather not discuss."

"He must care for you, if he's so willing to buy you a home."

Yvonne wraps her arms around herself and sighs. "He takes care of me," she explains, "because he must. Without me, he's worthless."

The soldier quirks an eyebrow, but decides to drop the subject when he notices the cold gaze clouding Yvonne's eyes.

* * *

**A/N**: This chapter was a bit shorter than the previous ones, oh well. You got to experience some lovely Bucky/Yvonne moments. There's only five chapters left (four of which still need to be written), and things are going to get a bit more... intense from this point on. Again, thank you for reading and please leave some feedback! I'd love to hear from you; it really helps me out as a writer. :)

Words: 1,747

Published: Friday, 9 May 2014

**Sco**: You're quite welcome, Sweetie! I think it's important for an author to communicate with their readers. I want them to know that I appreciate their support, and I acknowledge their feedback. And I'm glad that you are going to continue following my story. :)

**Anon**: Thank you for letting me know that you would be interested in a Steve/OC fic. :D


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